University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The following day, Herbert was early in
town.

Alfred had asked him to call on him as
soon as he should come in. Deeply interested
for Herbert, he was anxious to serve him.
But how could he do it? In his view, the
great danger of such a position was disappointment.
This was the calamity with
which he saw Herbert threatened.

While his own recent experience thus led
him to figure this contingency as the sole
evil, and to magnify the evil; from the same
source he learnt, how vain is any attempt to
soften it. He had himself felt, that the misery
of affection warmed into passion, foiled
of its object, and thrown back to wear itself
out by self-consumption, is complete. That

Herbert might suffer this misery, was the
fear which excited so strongly his concern;
and that he might escape it, was the engrossing
wish of his mind. His doubts respecting
Miss Walsall's worthiness were merged in
sympathy for his young friend's present feelings.
Even the worldliness he was disposed
to impute to her, did not now present itself
as an objection; so eager was he to seize on
whatever appeared to give promise of success.

He was revolving in his mind the difficulties
and probabilities of the case;—at one
moment venting aloud indignation against
Langley; then, threatening Miss Walsall,
should she not play Herbert fair; then, anticipating
a favorable issue; then, trying to
imagine consolation in case of failure,—when
Herbert arrived.

“Well, Herbert,” said Alfred abruptly, “I
have come to the conclusion, that a woman
who will permit the addresses of such a

scoundrel as Langley is not deserving of
yours.”

“You have taken one of your short cuts to
a conclusion,” said Herbert. “You dont
know that Langley is a scoundrel. It is certain
that Miss Walsall does'nt know it, if he
is. You are not even sure that he is a lover.”

“I am not sure that you are. Or if you
were yesterday, you may not be to-day.
Have you not at times been seized with a
longing for certain things or conditions,—for
wealth, or power, or a particular mode of
life,—awakened by seeing or reading of their
effects, and been possessed for hours by the
desire, and found after a night's sleep or a
busy day, that it had passed by? Or, have
you not felt anger roused, and, thinking to
yourself—`I will not be angry'—by a single
effort cast it from you? Love comes into the
mind in the same way, and in the same way
may go out too.”

“Strange,” said Herbert, “that I should

have got into the same train of thought just
now as I rode in. I asked myself—am I in
love? and if I am—what is it?”

“It is,” said Alfred, with an energy which
half imposed upon himself, “it is a dream.
Depend on it, my dear fellow, it is. What
is a dream?—Sleep and wake at the same
time. The plans or promises of this state of
partial life, are to the walking working man,
what a far off cloud is to the thirsty, or a
glowing star to the chilled. The waking
wings of the mind flutter away from its sleeping
body, and bear you up as if time were
not, nor space, nor any other obstacle.
This is now your condition. Part of your
faculties is asleep; and that part which is
not, deprived of the balance of the other,
whirls you wildly you know not whither.—
That there is a sleep on your mind you may
know from this:—what you have heretofore
thought of, you no longer think of; the common
currents of your feelings are stopt; your
anticipations and schemes are suspended;

even the trees and fields and houses looked
to you as you rode in to-day differently from
what they used to look. Is it not so?”

“Exactly,” said Herbert.

“My dear Herbert, you are not a responsible
being just now,—you hav'nt the use of
your mind.”

“This is a pitiable condition to be in,” said
Herbert. “The sooner I get out of it the
better.”

“You are half out of it already, if you are
conscious that you are in it. To feel that a
dream is a dream, is a sign of waking.”

“You help me so well to self-knowledge,
perhaps you can teach me how to get knowledge
of others. I should like to know what
are Miss Walsall's waking dreams, or whether
she has any.”

“Ah!” said Alfred, “a woman's dreams are
beyond our ken. The ripples on the surface
of the water we can count; but, how deep
sinks the pebble we have cast, or what it
rests on, is hid from us: beware how you interpret

the smile that breaks on the soft face
of a woman to your words or looks,—it may
be the same, whether these have sunk deeply
or not.”

“Nay, but if I mean my words and looks
to speak the language of my heart, why shall
I not ascribe to her the same sincerity? Are
women less truthful than men?”

“They are more truthful,” answered Alfred.
“And often their deceit is the shadow
of men's falsehood; as the fencer must follow
the foil of his adversary in its feints as well
as in its thrusts? A woman acts on the defensive,
and is obliged to give you a certain
scope, that she may see whether your attack
is feigned or real. Before she can let you
read her feelings, she must read yours.”

“You allow then, deception on her part.”

“Not deception: but, to a certain extent,
passiveness to your advances; and this, for
the purpose not only of discovering what
your designs are, but of learning her own
feelings?”

“This is placing me in her power, without
any pledge from her.

“Nor have you a right to any.”

“And if she abuse the power—”

“And if you abuse your power over her?
This is in her favor small advantage, to the
difference of your natures and positions.—
What are in such a case a man's feelings to a
woman's? I know, Herbert, the hold that
the heart will take, for I have felt the wrench
of its sundering;—and if the strength of a
man quails under it, what must it be to the
weakness of a woman? The deep injury I
have suffered would have been immeasurably
deeper had I inflicted it,—villain would then
be a mild name for me.—But, Herbert, you
too may act on the defensive—against yourself.
Until you see whether there is an
opening in the heart of her you love—or
rather, would love, for that ought to be the
tense—don't give full play to your feelings.—
Make sure of a channel before you let them
loose entirely, else they will with flooding

violence flow back upon you. Indeed, love
on one side only, is a delusion—nay, an impossibility.
Were we sure from the first
that a woman does not and will not and cannot
love us, we should not love her; and if
we do love one who does not and will not
love us, it is from the delusion of believing
that she does or will. Well then; start from
this position,—she will not love me,—and
you are safe. Did you ever try to make a
fire with a single stick of wood?—it can't be
done; the single stick will soon go out unless
a second be joined to it: this contains the
whole theory of love. But I see,” observing
that Herbert looked at his watch, “that you
are impatient to be engaged in the practice.”

“In which,” said Herbert, “I shall endeavor
to be mindful of the precepts of your
theory.”

Twelve o'clock found Herbert at Miss Walsall's.
He was not disappointed that a succession
of visitors prevented him from being
alone with her. He did not wish to be thrown

just now entirely upon himself. Alone with
her, he feared too intense a consciousness of
his feelings: the object of his visit would have
shone too distinctly through his manner, in
spite of himself, and he would have been embarrassed.
The appearance of being merely
one of several ordinary comers was a mask
to him to himself. He remained a long time,
longer than he would have done without
this countenance. He was encouraged to do
so, too, by Miss Walsall's manner, which, although
not pointedly affable towards himself,
was, he thought, more engaging than usual;
he fancied that she was pleased that he staid
out several sets of visitors. The charm of
her presence over him grew in strength,
while nothing that she said or did clouded
for a moment the sunshine of his heart.—
He came away in that state of buoyant delight
only felt in youth, and even then, in its
perfectness, only once. He leapt on his horse
to return home. He rode slowly out of town.
He seemed for the first time to feel existence:
the chain that had been secretly weaving in
his bosom to link him to one, he felt, as it
strengthened, to be a fresh bond to life. A
mystery of his being, revealing to him a new
blessedness and a new importance, was at the
same time exhibited and solved. Smiling
sweetly and deeply, love spread its bright
wings to bear him into the future.

He was riding slowly along in this mood,
when, at about half a mile from his uncle's,
his attention was attracted by an old man,
issuing from a small house near the road, evidently
in a state of alarm and grief. Herbert
held in his horse, and as the old man, who
was feeble and struggling to walk fast, approached
him, he asked, what was the matter:—“Oh!
my son! my son!” exclaimed the
old man. “Is he ill—are you going for a
doctor?” said Herbert, turning his horse.—
“Yes—,”—“Go back to the house,” said
Herbert: “I will go for one.” And while
the old man was thanking him through his

tears, he galloped off towards the town. He
soon returned with a physician.

He had noticed this house; and, struck
with the neatness about it, and the rich garden
attached to it, he had, only a few days
previously, as he was returning from town,
stopt, and entered into conversation with a
well-looking young man at work near the
road. He learnt from him, that he was from
Scotland, whence he had come a few years
before; and that he rented this garden, and
supported his family by working it himself.

Herbert went in with the physician. They
found the gardener tossing on a bed. His
father stated, that he had had a severe attack
of fever, from which he had only recovered a
fortnight before; and that he would work in
the sun before he had got his strength; he
was in the garden that morning, when he
was suddenly taken with a faintness and giddiness.
While the old man was talking, the
gardener's wife went to the bedside with the
physician, watching silently his countenance

while he questioned and felt the pulse of her
husband. The gardener was in a high fever.
Herbert endeavored to comfort the old man.
He requested the physician to return before
night; and, having promised that he would
himself come back the next morning, he took
his leave.

The scene thus suddenly opened to him,
saddened Herbert. He felt rebuked for his
own happiness. He would at that moment
have consented to forfeit it, to ensure the recovery
of the gardener. The wife, the children,
the father, filled his mind as he rode
home, instead of dreams of Miss Walsall. His
heart yearned for them. How fortunate that
he had been passing just as the old man came
out of the house. He had never before realized
the weight of affliction. Chords that
had been heretofore struck but by a light and
transient blow, now rang within him their
deep and mournful tones.

His uncle and aunt shared his sympathy
for the poor Scotch family.—“But he will get

well, Herbert: you will perhaps find him
much better to-morrow,” said Mr. Barclay.
“The Doctor thought him very ill,” said
Herbert. Mrs. Barclay said she would walk
down after dinner to see them.

Herbert called every day at the gardener's.
He continued ill. The physician said his
situation was critical.

Neither did a day pass without his seeing
Miss Walsall. These visits were the sum of
his daily life: all other minutes and hours
were but points of junction from one to
another: recollection of the last and anticipation
of the next, were the food of his mind
in the intervals between them. There was
no art in his wooing: it was the natural flow
from his heart. He gave himself up to his
feelings, thoughtless of whither they would
lead: and there was as little design in what
he said as in what he felt.

In this way a week passed.